One's own fireside is, to all well-regulated minds, a pleasant subject
of contemplation when one is absent, and a source of deep gratification
when present.
Especially may this be said to be the case in a cold, raw night in
November, when mankind has a tendency to become chronically cross out of
doors, and nature, generally, looks lugubrious; for, just in proportion
as the exterior world grows miserably chill, the world "at home," with
its blazing gas, its drawn curtains, its crackling fires, and its
beaming smiles, becomes doubly comfortable and cosy.
Even James Auberly, pompous, stern, and ungenial though he was, appeared
to entertain some such thoughts, as he sat by his own fireside, one such
night, in his elegant mansion in Beverly Square, Euston Road, London;
and smiled grimly over the top of the _Times_ newspaper at the fire.
Mr Auberly always smiled--when he condescended to smile--grimly. He
seldom laughed; when he did so he did it grimly too. In fact, he was a
grim man altogether; a gaunt, cadaverous, tall, careworn, middle-aged
man--also a great one. There could be no question as to that; for,
besides being possessed of wealth, which, in the opinion of some minds,
constitutes greatness, he was chairman of a railway company, and might
have changed situations with the charwoman who attended the head office
of the same without much difference being felt. He was also a director
of several other companies, which, fortunately for them, did not appear
to require much direction in the conduct of their affairs.
Mr Auberly was also leader of the fashion, in his own circle, and an
oracle among his own parasites; but, strange to say, he was nobody
whatever in any other sphere. Cabmen, it is true, appeared to have an
immense respect for him on first acquaintance, for his gold rings and
chains bespoke wealth, and he was a man of commanding presence, but
their respect never outlived a first engagement. Cabmen seldom touched
their hats to Mr Auberly on receiving their fare; they often parted
from him with a smile as grim as his own, and once a peculiarly daring
member of the fraternity was heard blandly to request him to step again
into the cab, and he would drive him the "nine hundred and ninety-ninth
part of an inch that was still doo on the odd sixpence." That generous
man even went further, and, when his fare walked away without making a
reply, he shouted after him that "if he'd only do 'im the honour to come
back, he'd throw in a inch an' a half extra for nothink." But Mr
Auberly was inexorable.
"Louisa, dear," said Mr Auberly, recovering from the grim smile which
had indicated his appreciation of his own fireside, "pour me out another
cup of coffee, and then you had better run away to bed. It is getting
late."
"Yes, papa," replied a little dark-eyed, dark-haired girl, laying down
her book and jumping up to obey the command.
It may be added that she was also dark-dressed, for Mr Auberly had
become a widower and his child motherless only six months before.
While Louisa was pouring out the coffee, her father rose and turned his
back to the fire.
It was really interesting, almost awe-inspiring, to behold Mr Auberly
rise; he was so very tall, and so exceedingly straight. So remarkably
perpendicular was he, so rigidly upright, that a hearty but somewhat
rude sea-captain, with whom he once had business transactions, said to
his mate on one occasion that he believed Mr Auberly must have been
born with a handspike lashed to his backbone. Yes, he was wonderfully
upright, and it would have been downright madness to have doubted the
uprightness of the spirit which dwelt in such a body; so nobody did
doubt it, of course, except a few jaundiced and sceptical folk, who
never could be got to believe anything.
"Good-night, my love," said Mr Auberly, as the child placed the coffee
beside his chair, and then advanced, somewhat timidly, and held up her
cheek to be kissed.
The upright man stooped, and there was a shade less of grimness in his
smile as his lips touched his daughter's pale cheek.
Louisa, or, to use the name by which she was better known in the house,
Loo, had clasped her hands tightly together while she was in the act of
receiving this tribute of parental affection, as if she were struggling
to crush down some feeling, but the feeling, whatever it was, would not
be crushed down; it rose up and asserted itself by causing Loo to burst
into a passionate flood of tears, throw her arms round her father's
neck, and hold him tight there while she kissed his cheek all over.
"Tut, tut, child!" exclaimed Mr Auberly, endeavouring to re-arrange the
stiff collar and cravat, which had been sadly disordered; "you must
really try to get over these--there, don't be cast down," he added, in a
kinder tone, patting Loo's head. "Good-night, dear; run away to bed
now, and be a good girl."
Loo smiled faintly through her tears as she looked up at her father, who
had again become upright, said "Good-night," and ran from the room with
a degree of energy that might have been the result of exuberant spirits,
though possibly it was caused by some other feeling.
Mr Auberly sat for some time, dividing his attentions pretty equally
between the paper, the fire, and the coffee, until he recollected having
received a letter that day which he had forgotten to answer, whereupon
he rose and sat down before his writing-table to reply.
The letter was from a poor widow, a sister-in-law of his own, who had
disgraced herself for ever--at least in Mr Auberly's eyes--by having
married a waterman. Mr Auberly shut his eyes obstinately to the fact
that the said waterman had, by the sheer force of intelligence, good
conduct, courage, and perseverance, raised himself to the command of an
East Indiaman. It is astonishing how firmly some people can shut their
eyes--sew them up, as it were, and plaster them over--to some things,
and how easily they can open them to others! Mr Auberly's eyes were
open only to the fact that his sister-in-law had married a waterman, and
that that was an unpardonable sin, for which she was for ever banished
from the sunshine of his presence.
The widow's letter set forth that since her husband's death she had been
in somewhat poor circumstances--though not in absolute poverty--for
which she expressed herself thankful; that she did not write to ask for
money, but that she had a young son--a boy of about twelve--whom she was
very anxious to get into a mercantile house of some sort, and, knowing
his great influence, etcetera, etcetera, she hoped that, forgetting, if
not forgiving, the past, now that her husband was dead, he would kindly
do what he could, etcetera, etcetera.
To this Mr Auberly replied that it was impossible to forgive the past,
but he would do his best to forget it, and also to procure a situation
for her son (though _certainly_ not in his own office), on one
consideration, namely, that she, the widow, should forget the past
also--including his own, Mr Auberly's, existence (as she had once
before promised to do), and that she should never inform her son, or any
other member of her family--if there happened to be any others members
of it--of the relationship existing between them, nor apply to him by
visit or by letter for any further favours. In the event of her
agreeing to this arrangement, she might send her son to his residence in
Beverly Square, on Thursday next, between eleven and twelve.
Just as he concluded this letter a footman entered softly and laid a
three-cornered note on the table.
"Stay, Hopkins, I want you," said Mr Auberly, as he opened the note and
ran his eye over it.
Hopkins, who was clad in blue velvet and white stockings, stood like a
mute beside his master's chair. He was very tall and very thin, and
very red in the nose.
"Is the young woman waiting, Hopkins?"
"Yes, sir; she's in the lobby."
"Send her up."
In a few seconds Hopkins reopened the door, and looked down with
majestic condescension on a smart young girl whom he ushered into the
room.
"That will do; you may go--stay, post this letter. Come here, young
woman."
The young woman, who was evidently a respectable servant-girl,
approached with some timidity.
"Your name is Matty Merryon, I understand (yes, sir), at least so your
late mistress, Miss Tippet, informs me. Pray, what does Matty stand
for?"
"Martha, sir."
"Well, Martha, Miss Tippet gives you a very good character--which is
well, because I intend you to be servant to my child--her maid; but Miss
Tippet qualifies her remarks by saying that you are a little careless in
_some_ things. What things are you careless in?"
"La! sir--"
"You must not say `La!' my girl," interrupted Mr Auberly with a frown,
"nor use exclamations of any kind in my presence; what are the `some
things' referred to?"
"Sure I don't know, sir," said the abashed Matty. "I s'pose there's
a-many things I ain't very good at; but, please, sir, I don't mean to do
nothin' wrong, sir, I don't indeed; an' I'll try to serve you well, sir,
if it wor only to plaaze my missis, as I'm leavin' against my will, for
I love my--"
"There, that will do," said Mr Auberly somewhat sternly, as the girl
appeared to be getting excited.
"Ring that bell; now, go downstairs and Hopkins will introduce you to my
housekeeper, who will explain your duties to you."
Hopkins entered and solemnly marched Martha Merryon to the regions
below.
Mr Auberly locked away his papers, pulled out his watch, wound it up,
and then, lighting a bedroom candle, proceeded with much gravity
upstairs.
He was a very stately-looking man, and strikingly dignified as he walked
upstairs to his bedroom--slowly and deliberately, as though he were
marching at his own funeral to the tune of something even deader than
the "Dead March in Saul."
It is almost a violation of propriety to _think_ of Mr Auberly doing
such a very undignified thing as "going to bed!" Yet truth requires us
to tell that he did it; that he undressed himself as other mortals do;
that he clothed himself in the wonted ghostly garment; and that, when
his head was last seen--in the act of closing the curtains around him--
there was a conical white cap on it, tied with a string below the chin,
and ornamented on the top with a little tassel, which waggled as though
it were bidding a triumphant and final adieu to human dignity!
Half an hour later, Mrs Rose, the housekeeper, a matronly, good-looking
woman, with very red cheeks, was busy in the study explaining to Matty
Merryon her duties. She had already shown her all over the house, and
was now at the concluding lesson.
"Look here now, Merryon," began the housekeeper.
"Oh, please don't call me Merryon--I ain't used to it. Call me Matty,
_do_ now!"
"Very well, Matty," continued Mrs Rose, with a smile, "I've no
objection; you Irish are a strange race! Now, look here. This is
master's study, and mind, he's very partikler, dreadful partikler."
She paused and looked at her pupil, as if desirous of impressing this
point deeply on her memory.
"He don't like his papers or books touched; not even dusted! So you'll
be careful not to dust 'em, nor to touch 'em even so much as with your
little finger, for he likes to find 'em in the mornin' just as he left
'em at night."
"Yes, Mrs Rose," said Matty, who was evidently giving up her whole soul
to the instruction that was being imparted.
"Now," continued the housekeeper, "the arranging of this room will be
your last piece of work at night. You'll just come in, rake out the
grate, carry off the ashes, lay the noo fire, put the matches handy on
the chimney-piece, look round to see that all's right, and then turn off
the gas. The master is a early riser, and lights the fire his-self of a
mornin'."
"Yes, 'm," said Matty, with a courtesy.
"Now, go and do it," said Mrs Rose, "that I may see you understand it.
Begin with the grate an' the ashes."
Matty, who was in truth an experienced maid-of-all-work, began with
alacrity to discharge the duties of her new station. She carried off
the ashes, and returned with the materials for next day's fire in a
shovel. Here she gave a slight indication of her so-called carelessness
(awkwardness would have been more appropriate) by letting two or three
pieces of stick and a bit of coal fall on the carpet, in her passage
across the room.
"Be careful, Matty," said Mrs Rose gently. "It's all owin' to haste.
Take your time, an' you won't do such things."
Matty apologised, picked up the materials, and laid the fire. Then she
took her apron and approached the writing-table, evidently with the
intention of taking the dust off the corners, but not by any means
intending to touch the books or papers.
"Stop!" cried Mrs Rose sternly.
Matty stopped with a guilty look.
"Not a touch," said Mrs Rose.
"Not even the edges, nor the legs?" inquired the pupil.
"Neither edges nor legs," said the instructor.
"Sure it could do no harm."
"Matty," said Mrs Rose solemnly, "the great thing that your
countrywomen have to learn is _obedience_."
"Thank 'ee, 'm," said Matty, who, being overawed by the housekeeper's
solemnity, felt confused, and was uncertain whether the reference to her
countrywomen was complimentary or the reverse.
"Now," continued Mrs Rose, "the matches."
Matty placed the box of matches on the chimney-piece.
"Very well; now you've got to look round to see that all's right."
Matty looked round on the dark portraits that covered the walls
(supposed to be ancestors), on the shelves of books, great and small,
new and old (supposed to be read); on the vases, statuettes, chairs,
tables, desks, curtains, papers, etcetera, etcetera, and, being utterly
ignorant of what constituted right and what wrong in reference to such
things, finally turned her eyes on Mrs Rose with an innocent smile.
"Don't you see that the shutters are neither shut nor barred, Matty?"
She had _not_ seen this, but she at once went and closed and barred
them, in which operation she learned, first, that the bars refused to
receive their respective "catches," with unyielding obstinacy for some
time; and, second, that they suddenly gave in without rhyme or reason
and pinched her fingers severely.
"Now then, what next?" inquired Mrs Rose.
"Put out the gas," suggested Matty.
"And leave yourself in the dark," said the housekeeper, in a tone of
playful irony.
"Ah! sure, didn't I forgit the candle!"
In order to rectify this oversight, Matty laid the unlighted candle
which she had brought with her to the room on the writing-table, and
going to the chimney-piece, returned with the match-box.
"Be careful now, Matty," said Mrs Rose earnestly. "There's nothink
I've such a fear of as fire. You can't be too careful."
This remark made Matty, who was of an anxious temperament, extremely
nervous. She struck the match hesitatingly, and lighted the candle
shakily. Of course it would not light (candles never do on such
occasions), and a long red-hot end of burnt wood projected from the
point of the match.
"Don't let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket!" exclaimed
Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.
"Where?" exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into the
centre of a mass of papers.
"There, just at your feet; don't be so nervous, girl!" cried Mrs Rose.
Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the
waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot
might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the
domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous woman, seized the
basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby
fanning the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She
succeeded, however, in cramming the basket and its contents into the
grate; then the two, with the aid of poker, tongs, and shovel, crushed
and beat out the fire.
"There! I said you'd do it," gasped Mrs Rose, as she flung herself,
panting, into Mr Auberly's easy-chair; "this comes of bein' in a
hurry."
"I was always unfort'nit," sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and
keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on
the smallest spark that should venture to show itself.
"Come, now, we'll go to bed," said Mrs Rose, rising, "but first look
well round to see that all is safe."
A thorough and most careful investigation was made of the basket, the
grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the
smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and
pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired to the servants'-hall,
where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work
awaited their arrival--supper being already on the table.
Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphic--not to say
exaggerated--account of the "small fire" in the study, and wound up with
an eloquent appeal to all to "beware of fire," and an assurance that
there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater
horror of.
Meanwhile the "little spark" among the papers--forgotten in the
excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper basket--continued
to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the cloth between two
bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton pen-wiper, which
received it rather greedily in its embrace. This pen-wiper lay in
contact with some old letters which were dry and tindery in their
nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap, afforded enlarged
accommodation, for the "spark," which in about half an hour became quite
worthy of being termed a "swell."
After that things went on like--"like a house on fire"--if we may
venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the
elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.